We like to have fun and let our Askew sides show at Rhetoric Askew on Facebook, so we challenged our writers to have fun and…
Write about silhouette:
A pair of silhouettes, nothing more
Gripped hands, clear in love ran and frolicked
Through the wild forest, bright with vivid colors
Red, brown, green, orange
Pleasant smells of cotton candy and
They reached a magnificent blue lake
at the end of their journey
She watched me. I could tell it was she just by her silhouette of the motel neon behind her. She stood there in the alley, sucking on an endless smoke, probably a cigar. She was that kind of lady, into me like all the best ones were, tough enough to take my worst. She liked the way I stood there, pumping gas like a Greek god. She had a life full of lame, dead-end job, a boss with roaming eyes, a boyfriend who watched diving competitions instead of making her moan. She needed me, the promise of getting what she deserved.
She dropped her smoke, crushed it with long shadowy legs that went from her toes all the way to her … gah, teenager! Look away, they’ll think you’re a pedophile.
The Satan silhouette on my pillow whispers, “Not a dream,” but she must be a liar.
A Revell plastic model of the Silhouette Show car from my childhood (candy apple red, chromed engine glass domed top, complete with trailer), life-sized mind you, sits at the foot of my bed, V8 engine purring like sexual afterglow.
Crazy, I know, but the scent of exhaust and car polish say otherwise. It pulls me from my bed in my tighty whities, a fifteen-year-old’s fifty-year-old dream come true.
“It’s yours,” she says. Instead of questioning my sanity, I wonder how the hell do I get this baby out on the road. My dream car, lovingly painted and assembled, in 1966. The model had disappeared over the years, but I still think about it, now and again, with the same joy and wonder that I remember my first kiss.
“It’s yours,” the silhouette purrs, “with a caveat or two and a quid pro quo.”
“I’ll take it.”
“You don’t want to know the cost?”
I shrug. “What does it matter? My soul, yours. Firstborn child. Don’t have one. Keys and pink slip?”
“In the ignition and the glove compartment.”
I slide behind the wheel, and the leather interior feels like sex. “I’m sixty-five, with nowhere to go but down. The Silhouette’s worth it, even if only for a moment.